The Hanged Man

by Gary Inbinder

  The burglar complied without a word. The second detective stepped forward and bound Renard’s hands tightly before patting him down for weapons, while his partner kept their quarry covered with his pistol. When the detective was satisfied that his quarry was defenseless, he grabbed Renard by the shoulder, spun him around, and slammed a fist into his gut. Renard doubled over in pain, retching, and puked on the carpet.

  “That’ll teach you not to fuck with us,” the first detective growled.

  “It was a fair cop,” his partner added. “An old pro like you should have known better. Now you’re going to have a nice chat with Inspector Rousseau, so you’d better behave yourself.”

  Renard’s eyes widened. “Rousseau?”

  The detectives laughed. The first detective holstered his revolver and said, “You should see your face, Renard—like a comedian who just got his rear whacked with a slapstick. You’d better be nice and sing like a bird for Rousseau, or the clochards will have your guts for fish bait. Now let’s get a move on. We mustn’t keep the inspector waiting.”

  At four A.M., Moreau and Wroblewski arrived at the house on the Rue Ronsard. Moreau turned the latchkey and they entered the front hallway. The blinding white light of several police lanterns greeted them.

  “Laurent Moreau and Leon Wroblewski,” Achille said, “I arrest you in the name of the law.”

  The pair replied by turning to run, but landed in the arms of two beefy officers. A struggle ensued, ending when a gendarme whipped out his truncheon and cracked the back of Wroblewski’s skull. Stunned, the fugitive dropped to his knees like a poleaxed ox. Seeing his companion fall at his side and realizing the hopelessness of the situation, Moreau gave up the fight and surrendered.

  The officers bound the prisoners and dragged them to Achille and Legros.

  “Where’s Rossignol?” Achille demanded.

  Wroblewski, his eyes glazed over, shook his head and mumbled incoherently. Moreau scowled and spat in the inspector’s face. Achille calmly wiped the spittle with a handkerchief; his partner was not so unflappable.

  “Filthy swine!” Legros struck Moreau’s face with the back of his hand, knocking the prisoner down. Legros’s signet ring split Moreau’s lip and cracked a tooth. “Stay on your knees and lick the floor!”

  Achille put his hand on his partner’s shoulder. “That’s enough, Étienne.” He ordered the gendarmes to stand the prisoner up.

  The officers grabbed Moreau’s bound arms and lifted him to his feet. One of the gendarmes yanked the prisoner’s hair and held his head in Achille’s direction.

  “It’s over, Moreau,” Achille said calmly. “You’re facing the guillotine or transportation. Cooperate, and we’ll recommend leniency. I’ll ask one more time. Where is Rossignol?”

  Moreau scowled. “Go to hell.”

  “Take them to the Conciergerie,” Achille ordered.

  The officers carried the groaning, semi-conscious Wroblewski feet-first out the door. Moreau followed. As soon as he was in the street, Moreau cried, “You may cut off our heads, but the voice of the people will be heard. Long live anarchy!” Several dogs barked in reply.

  “Gag him before he wakes the whole neighborhood,” Achille directed. Then he turned to his partner and shook his head. “De Gournay’s given us the slip. All we have are the pawns. I wonder what Rousseau’s doing with Renard.”

  “Getting valuable information, I hope,” Legros replied. “I’m sure the Porter will talk to save his neck. Among other things, our Belgian friends said he’s a gutless canary. However, I doubt the juge will get anything out of Moreau or Wroblewski.”

  Achille nodded his agreement. “They aren’t cowards, if that’s what you mean. They want to be martyrs for the cause, but scoundrels have duped and betrayed them and their ideals. Who will profit from their sacrifice? De Gournay? Orlovsky? Others of their ilk? Anyway, the poor fools we arrested this morning wouldn’t believe us if we told them. I’m afraid there’s no chance of justice in this case unless we catch Rossignol.”

  Legros tried to lift his partner’s spirit with a sanguine observation. “Sergeant Rodin’s men are searching the house on the Rue de la Mire. Maybe de Gournay’s hiding there?”

  “That would be too lucky, my friend,” Achille said with a sigh. “At any rate, they should be reporting soon. In the meantime, let’s go to the cellar and see what the chemist has found.”

  The police had entered the house and begun searching a few hours earlier. An expert from the Central Explosives Laboratory accompanied them. They were particularly concerned about the potential hazard from a cache of nitroglycerin.

  Achille and Legros went down to the cellar, where they found the chemist and another detective examining a stockpile of explosives and weapons by the light of kerosene lamps. The chemist crouched by a box in a corner, sifting through its contents until he heard the inspectors approach. He turned his head and smiled up at Achille.

  “I’ve some good news, Inspector. There’s no nitro down here. We’ve found dynamite, gelignite, blasting caps and fuses, and an interesting timing device. But once it’s all been inventoried, it will be safe to transport.”

  “I see,” Achille replied. “So there’s no evidence they were making an explosive from a formula?”

  The chemist got up and walked over to Achille and Legros. “No, Inspector, they have neither the equipment nor the chemicals required for manufacturing explosives. They either purchased or stole everything. Everything, that is, except for the timer, which is quite ingenious.”

  “May I see it?”

  The chemist led Achille and Legros to a workbench in the middle of the basement. “As you can see, it’s a cheap alarm clock connected to a detonator. It could be placed in a parcel or briefcase, left somewhere, and timed to explode after the bomber had made his escape.”

  Achille lifted the device and examined it carefully. “Yes, it’s devilishly clever, all right.” He set down the mechanism and added, “I appreciate your efforts, Professor. Your assistance in this case has been invaluable.”

  The chemist smiled and shook Achille’s extended hand. “I’m glad to be of service, Inspector.” He paused before asking, “Do you anticipate more cases of this nature?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. It’s the way of our world, after all.”

  The chemist frowned and shook his head. “Ah, yes. Our world.” He looked Achille in the eye. “What then must we do?”

  Chief Féraud folded his hands, leaned forward over his desk, and stared at his lead investigators, clearly impatient. “Well, gentlemen, three out of four isn’t bad. And we have all their explosives and weapons, haven’t we?”

  Achille, Legros, and Rousseau sat facing the chief. A tense moment of silence passed among them before Achille replied, “I’m sorry, Chief. We can’t claim victory with de Gournay on the loose. As for the explosives and weapons, we have no idea what he took with him as he went to ground. We need more information, but one of our prisoners is in the hospital with a concussion and the other’s withstood the magistrate’s grilling for hours.”

  “I’d make him talk,” Rousseau broke in.

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Inspector, as M. Lefebvre has placed them in the magistrate’s custody.” The chief glared at Achille, his meaning clear: Féraud would have handled the matter differently.

  Rousseau noticed the chief’s displeasure and grinned. “My canary’s been singing his little heart out. I’m confident he’s told us everything he knows. The plan was to bomb the Café Terminus this evening. Our prisoners would get their final marching orders this morning at four. De Gournay must have gotten wise to our planned raids, but too late to tip off his confederates.”

  “Did Renard say anything about the papers he was sent to steal?” Achille asked.

  “No, it was just another job to him, like the Kadyshev burglary. De Gournay paid the burglar and told him where to go and what to look for. Renard also took care of Boguslavsky in the La Villette storehouse for a while,
brought him food and so forth. He swears he had nothing to do with the killings. He says that was de Gournay’s, Moreau’s, and Wroblewski’s work, and he’ll testify against them.”

  “Do you believe him?” Achille pressed.

  Rousseau turned to Achille with a sarcastic smile. “Really, Achille, do you think the little rat would lie to me?”

  Achille addressed his next comment to the chief. “I believe the café bombing was planned as a diversion. De Gournay’s target is the Russian foreign minister.”

  “Are you still convinced of that?” Féraud asked.

  “I can’t be certain without further evidence, but I believe the assassination plot is most probable.”

  The chief seemed confused. “Please explain, Achille.”

  “The minister, traveling incognito, was scheduled to arrive at Saint-Lazare station on the Le Havre express at eight o’clock tonight. We must presume that de Gournay has no knowledge of our plan to have the minister detrain at Asnières. The Café Terminus is just around the corner from the station. A bombing shortly before the train’s arrival would create panic that would soon spread through the hotel and the station. De Gournay could kill the minister as he stepped onto the platform and escape during the confusion.”

  “That makes sense,” Rousseau said, “but with Moreau and Wroblewski in custody, who would throw the bomb at the café?”

  A timid knock on the door interrupted the discussion. The chief growled, “Enter.”

  A nervous clerk opened the door a crack and poked his head in. “I apologize for the interruption, M. Féraud, but there’s a gentleman here to see you. He says it’s most urgent.”

  “I gave strict instructions not to be disturbed. Who is he?”

  “Uh … it’s Commandant Bazeries.”

  “Bazeries? Of course we’ll see him.”

  The commandant entered the office and took a chair next to Achille. He did not keep the group in suspense. “I have good news, gentlemen. Captain Duret has made contact with the Lackey.”

  The chief seemed bewildered. “Which lackey is that, Commandant?”

  “I apologize. ‘The Lackey’ is a code name for our agent, de Gournay’s servant.”

  “I sometimes get confused with all this cloak-and-dagger. Please continue.”

  Bazeries nodded and smiled politely. “With your permission, Chief Féraud. As you may recall, the Lackey failed to report on schedule, which had Duret worried. We now have an explanation for this sudden change in our agent’s behavior. The man’s terrified. De Gournay, who is ordinarily very cool in his actions, has suddenly seemed desperate and erratic. They left the house on the Rue de la Mire late last night and checked into a hotel on the Rue de Parme as the Viscount de Saint-Valery and manservant.”

  “The Rue de Parme? That’s not far from the railway station,” the chief remarked.

  “That’s correct, Monsieur,” Bazeries replied. “Unfortunately, de Gournay’s not there at present. We’ve lost track of him again.”

  “Pardon me, Commandant,” Achille said, “but you said your agent is terrified. Is there something specific that’s worrying him?”

  “De Gournay left a package and five hundred francs compensation with his servant, with instructions to leave the parcel under a table at the Café Terminus at eight o’clock this evening.”

  “My God, it’s a bomb!” Achille exclaimed. He turned to Bazeries. “Before you joined us, we were discussing de Gournay’s plot to bomb the café. Inspector Rousseau questioned who would throw the bomb with Moreau and Wroblewski in custody. With the information you’ve provided, I’m now certain of the answer. I believe de Gournay means for the Lackey to plant it unknowingly.

  “This morning, an explosives expert from the Central Laboratory helped us search the house on the Rue Ronsard. In the course of the investigation, he discovered a new type of infernal machine, which we subsequently took as evidence. The device has an ingenious mechanism employing a common alarm clock and an electric detonator. A dry-cell battery provides the electricity. Boguslavsky tinkered with that sort of thing.”

  “What the deuce is a dry-cell battery?” the chief inquired.

  “It’s a recent invention,” Achille replied. “It’s much more compact than a wet-cell battery, portable, and adaptable. Electric ignition makes a lit fuse unnecessary. The bomber can set the clockwork mechanism to give him time to escape. At any rate, I believe de Gournay planned the café as a diversion, rather than the primary target.

  “In my opinion, he intends to assassinate the ‘Guest.’ Initially, I thought they would attempt the deed by lobbing a bomb into the overpass connecting the station with the hotel. Now, I think it’s more likely to occur on the platform. I believe that would give de Gournay a better chance for escape. Moreover, I believe his motivation is money rather than ideology, but I still don’t know who’s paying him, other than the Russians whom he has betrayed.” He turned to Bazeries. “Does the Deuxième Bureau suspect the Germans?”

  Bazeries answered firmly, “We do not, Inspector. The Germans would pay for the high-explosives formula, but they would not be so rash as to instigate an assassination that would provoke an international crisis.”

  “Are you certain they wouldn’t try it, if the anarchists were blamed?” Achille asked.

  Bazeries shook his head and remained firm. “In our opinion, they would not risk it.”

  “I agree,” Féraud said. “Besides, I’m a police officer. Matters of foreign affairs are outside my sphere of operations, thank God. From my perspective, our job is to prevent the assassination and the bombing and, if possible, capture or kill de Gournay. We already have a plan for the former, we now need one for the latter, and time is short.”

  “I have an idea, Chief, but it requires precise coordination among our police brigades, as well as the assistance of the Deuxième Bureau and the explosives expert, Professor Martin.”

  “Very well, Achille,” the chief replied. “I leave it in your capable hands. I’m off to report to the prefect, and then I must meet with M. Orlovsky and discuss our plan for meeting the minister’s train at Asnières.”

  At seven o’clock, the Lackey stepped into a pissoir on the Rue d’Amsterdam. Captain Duret was waiting at the urinal. They exchanged parcels, identically wrapped in brown paper and bound with string, and then the captain walked out without a word. A minute later, the Lackey exited with a tremendous sigh of relief and proceeded down the busy thoroughfare in the direction of the railway station and Hotel Terminus.

  Captain Duret walked in the opposite direction, toward a closed coach parked near the Hotel Britannia. The driver opened the door and the captain stepped up into the dark interior, where Professor Martin waited patiently. The door closed and the driver climbed to his box, snapped the reins, and clicked at his horses. They pulled away from the curb and soon broke into a quick trot.

  The captain handed the parcel over gingerly. “Do you think we have enough time?”

  The professor received the package and cradled it in his lap. With a faint smile, he replied, “I sincerely hope so. At any rate, I’ve studied the mechanism. If we can’t make it to the arsenal, I’ll try to disarm the bomb in the coach. I trust you’ve paid your insurance premiums?”

  Achille stood near the gate separating the concourse from the train shed, scanning the immense iron-and-glass structure. Several plainclothes officers patrolled the area, awaiting a signal from Achille.

  Arriving and departing trains belched smoke and hissed steam, saturating the atmosphere with a thick grayish haze. The sky above the sooty glass panes was pitch dark, moonless and starless, but the concrete platforms stretching out beyond the shed into the busy rail yard were ablaze with rows of electric lamps. Passengers bustled in and out; porters stacked and hauled baggage; guards blew their whistles and slammed carriage doors shut; chuffing engines shuttled back and forth; wheels rumbled and brakes squealed.

  Legros approached from the crowded concourse and tapped Achille’s shoulder.
“Good news, Inspector. The Lackey made the switch on schedule.”

  Achille checked his watch. The captain and chemist had barely one hour to take the bomb to a safe location and disarm or explode it. “Let’s wish them well, Étienne. We’ll need a bit of good luck, too.”

  “You haven’t spotted him yet?” Legros asked.

  “Not yet. Though with the exception of Rousseau, who’s met him, we’re all working from descriptions. De Gournay’s a chameleon. Who knows what color he’ll display this evening?”

  Legros smiled. “I doubt he’ll play the female. Skirts, high-heeled shoes, and a corset would be quite a nuisance if he had to make a run for it.”

  Rousseau joined them. “Tsk-tsk, Inspectors. Talking about women’s unmentionables, eh? I’m shocked.”

  Achille scrutinized his colleague, who wore a railway guard’s cap and uniform and hid his face behind a false beard and glasses. “Nice disguise, my friend. Have you been taking lessons from the elusive Rossignol?”

  “It’s no joke, Lefebvre,” Rousseau snorted. “I’ve the best chance of identifying him, but without a disguise he’d recognize me on the spot.”

  “I’m sorry, old man,” Achille said, and smirked, “but you do look elegant in that outfit. Perhaps the railway will take you on when you retire from the force.”

  Rousseau shook his head with a frown. “Enough clowning, Achille. I know it helps when we’re all on edge, but he could show up at any minute, armed and desperate. Have your men closed off all his escape routes?”

  “He’ll be blocked if he tries to go through the station or to cross over to the hotel. His only way out is through the rail yard.”

  “What good would that do him?” Rousseau asked.

  “I haven’t a clue,” Achille replied. “Maybe he could climb the Pont de l’Europe?”

  “How the hell would he do that?” Rousseau growled.